


Burn, Baby, Burn (Not a False Alarm)

by tisfan



Series: Imagine Clint and Coulson prompts [6]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint can't cook, Firefighters, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisfan/pseuds/tisfan
Summary: Firefighters AU. Imagine person A isreallybad in the kitchen and keeps burning things and person B is the firefighter who keeps showing up and save the day.





	Burn, Baby, Burn (Not a False Alarm)

“Aw, spaghetti, no,” Clint protested. He’d only gone to check his email for like five minutes, a huge stockpot of water shouldn’t boil away in that amount of time, but based on the blatting sounds coming from his ceiling and the roiling smoke clogging up the hall, that’s exactly what had happened. Either that, or he’d left a loaf of bread on the stove again and turned on the wrong burner. He’d done that, too.

It couldn’t be microwave popcorn, this time, because he hadn’t put popcorn in. He was pretty sure, at least. Exhaustion had a way of having him running on autopilot. He knew he was tired, he had three part time jobs, all of which worked him a precise 32 hours per week because that was the most amount of hours he could have without qualifying for any sort of company health insurance. Not that he needed the insurance, but he would have liked some fucking overtime pay for the amount of hours he put in.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened. It probably wasn’t going to be the last time, but it might well be the last time here. The fire department had been very clear, last time; one more house fire in this building and Clint was going to get fined.

A fine was going to mean he couldn’t pay rent; which meant he was going to lose his nice comfortable loft apartment, and--

God, the smoke was _thick_.

What Clint needed was a fire alarm that would shut itself off when he yelled, “hey, I’m cooking here!” at it.

His head was spinning lazily. The walls weren’t quite. Right.

And the air was really, really hot.

This wasn’t a cooking fire, Clint realized, suddenly, a few wisps of burned crumbs. Or even a more substantial cooking accident, like melting the stockpot onto the stove trying to make turkey broth. This was… an actual fire?

Clint went to his knees in the hall.

If it was an actual fire, even if it was something in the kitchen, and he’d left it on, at least the fire department wouldn’t be able to fine him. That was a good thought. His eyes were blurry, tears streaked his cheeks. Lucky was under his hands, whining. The dog bit hold of Clint’s tee shirt and tried to drag him down the hall.

What the hell?

The shirt ripped and Lucky barked frantically before erupting into some terribly painful sounding dog-coughs.

Come to think of it, Clint was coughing, too.

The floor was nice. Cooler. He laid down.

***

When the tones went off, Coulson sighed outwardly, smirked inwardly. He knew that address, even as he was running for his kit, sliding down the pole and clambering onto the truck. It didn’t matter that the residents at 302 Quincy were prone to false alarms. Rogers, the captain, judged them on prompt response time and if it took them longer than seven minutes to get on scene, there were going to be drills and training.

302-p’s tennant was a scruffy-looking blond guy with startling blue eyes and muscles for days, which probably didn’t quite make up for his inability to adult properly. He always looked like he’d forgotten to shower, hadn’t had a proper meal in months, and had bandages on his arms, legs, and nose on a fairly regular basis.

“Sergeant Barnes is onroute,” Hill, the dispatcher reported. Barnes was one of the traffic cones that the fire department worked with regularly. Trouble on two legs, but he was efficient as hell, too. “Reports claim this job is fully involved.”

“Shit, really?” Fitz, one of the deckies, exclaimed. Fitz hadn’t even been on the crew for too long, and everyone knew about 302-p.

Robbie Reyes drove the truck like he was psychically joined with the engine, dodging traffic and sliding into holes in the pattern the likes of which Coulson would never try. The engine rolled up to the building, smoke pouring out of the roof, thick and black. Visible flames from the second and third floors.

"Goin' in," Coulson said. "Mack, you’re with me. Someone find a resident, get me a head-count."

  
Coulson was through the door and into the staircase before word trickled in: two kids, left behind by the babysitter and the babysitter's boyfriend. "Boyfriend dragged her out," Hill said. "She's hysterical, but he was smart. Ain't no place in a fire for a teenage girl."

"Amen to that." Coulson had seen it, too many times. In a panic, mother leaves the house, then goes back in. Rescue gets the kids, but the mom's gone. Golden rule to fire: Once you get out, stay out.

  
Captain Rogers led the charge into the burning apartment, kicked the door down. Coulson sensed more than heard Mack just behind him.Yo-Yo Rodriguez and her partner, Jemma Simmons brought up the rear, humping the pipe with them.

  
Rogers damn near tripped over the first kid, a girl in a filthy, torn t-shirt and diaper curled up near the door. "Jemma!" He scooped the baby up and handed her over. Only Jemma's third live fire, and Nick Fury, the fire marshal, had already chewed their asses once for letting the girl take risks.

"Get her out, I'll check the rest of this unit!" Captain Rogers grabbed Yo-Yo and went to inspect the 3rd floor place.

Mack nudged Coulson and they headed up the stairs again. Flames licked the walls. Coulson was soaked with sweat under his kit. Jemma reported as she got out the door with the baby girl. There'd probably be a picture-snapper out there with the looky-loos, get them on the front page, carrying the kid out safely. “Don’t forget, you get in the paper, Simmons, you owe us all pie!”

"Roof's ablaze," Reyes reported from the truck. "14 and 9 are on scene; soaking down the neighbors."

"Someone's insurance is gonna scream blue murder," Mack said.

"Lives first, paperwork later," Coulson chanted. "Get me some water in here!" He pushed another unit.  The television was the only recognizable thing left, and it was pouring white smoke all around it; the sofa and chairs were lumps of misshapen ash and smolder. Mack flipped the chairs, shoved the burning sofa away from the wall; people did the damnedest things in a fire. Hid under tables and in closets and behind dressers.

  
Mack peeled off, kicking in the toasted door to the bathroom with one booted foot. "Got a dog here," he reported. The dog was whining and barking and trying to drag Mack deeper into the inferno.

  
"Shit, I know that dog!" Coulson yelled. That was 302-p’s dog. Fuck, fuck, fuck. "He’s a service dog. The vet’s probably in the back! Get the dog out, I’ll get the owner.” He hoped.

  
The bedroom was hell in a kettle. Flames wreathed the walls, smoke was dense and black, obscuring vision. Anyone in here... Steve shook his head. He stopped in the door, careful. The floor seemed solid enough. He glanced around, letting his eyes rest on each area of the room for a few seconds. Bed was so much char. Bookshelves, the twisted remains of a space-heater. One for the fire-marshal to prod at, he expected. Closet door was open, there was nothing in there but flaming clothes.

“Where’d the dog come from, Mack?” Coulson demanded. He wasn’t going to be able to stay much longer, the fucking place was going up.

“Door in th’ hall?”

 _Bathroom!_ Coulson backtracked. Sure enough, there was 302, half in the bathtub. The dog had obviously lead his owner in here, smart pooch.

  
He didn't move when Coulson lifted him and in the strange darkness of the fire-bright room, shadows throwing crazed sparks into the air, Coulson couldn't tell if the guy was breathing. Behind him, the door-frame collapsed, along with a fair amount of ceiling and roofing tile.

  
"Reyes!" Coulson bellowed into his helmet mike. "Need you to get me a ladder up here, fourth floor!"

  
"On it!" Reyes’s voice was music in his ears. Coulson slung the man in a fireman’s carry, adrenaline giving him extra strength. He staggered to the bedroom. Balanced for a few seconds and then kicked out the window. Tricky bit of work, with windows. If you opened them, you could get out, but there was also the risk of fanning the flames. Here, he didn't think there was much choice.

"Gotta fuckin' traffic cone in my way. God damn cops." Reyes yelled. “Barnes, move your fuckin’ gawkers!”

Coulson peered out the window to watch the cop scramble back into the patrol car to move it away.

"I got the guy here," Coulson said, "which is making suppression all kinds of unreasonably difficult."

"Get your panties out of your ass," Reyes snapped. "I'm coming."

“Do I get dinner and dancing first, Reyes, or are you just fuckin’ me up the ass?”

“You wish you were that lucky,” Reyes retorted.

“Language!” Roger’s voice came over the coms, stern and uncompromising. They’d gotten in trouble before for swearing on coms; there were always amateur radio junkies listening to the band.

The tower came up, Fitz already climbing up like a pirate's monkey. "I got the guy, you get your ass down here," he said, holding out his arms out for Coulson’s bundle. "If we're lucky on this one, we can save the basement."

Just before he threw his legs over the windowsill, Coulson heard Reyes snort into his headset. "Yeah, save the basement for a swimming pool."

The wall came away from the building.

***

Clint woke up in the hospital; tubes in his nose, tubes in his arms, and there was one resting against his leg and thank you very much, he didn’t want to know where that one was going. Monitors beeped and hissed and pinged off to one side.

He shivered. Reached out a hand.

A moment later, Lucky put his head under Clint’s hand. He woofed softly.

Someone stirred in the room. Clint turned, focused.

For just a moment, Clint had no idea who the guy was, and then --

“Oh, I didn’t recognize you without your clothes on,” Clint said.

The guy blinked.

“Aw, mouth, no,” Clint said. “I meant your--” Clint gestured at him. “Your uniform, your…”

“My kit,” the firefighter said. He was wearing the same hospital down that Clint had, one arm in a sling, although he managed to talk someone into letting him have a pair of sweatpants. His feet were bare and he was dragging an IV pole around with him. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“What --”

“Your neighbor's place caught fire,” the fireman said. “I’m Coulson, by the way, Mr. Barton. We haven’t met officially.” He offered Clint a hand, which Clint was glad to take and shake. The man’s hands were warm, calloused, steady. He had a nice smile.

“Am I gonna get a fine?”

“No, Mr. Barton,” Coulson said. “Sorry for butting in on your recovery time, but the nurses didn’t want to let your dog in here unsupervised, and I thought you’d want to see him when you woke up. So I volunteered to sit in here, since I have to be here anyway.”

“What happened to you?”

“Broke my arm when the walls came down. Managed not to fall the whole four floors, but I’ll admit that hanging off the tower with a dislocated shoulder wasn’t my finest moment. You and I were the last ones safely away.”

“Owe you my life, I guess,” Clint said. He kept petting Lucky.

“Well,”Coulson chuckled, “I don’t think it’s quite that dire. I’ll let you take me out to dinner, if you want.”

Clint blinked. The hot fireman was _flirting_ with him? Was that happening? Lucky woofed lightly and licked Clint’s hand.

“Um… yeah. Yeah, I’d like that, dinner, thing. Yes?”

  
Coulson’s smile lit up the room. “Great.”


End file.
